Between the Worlds
by Schmo and Sushi
Summary: Complete! Digory and Polly, in an effort to return to Narnia, end up getting more fantastical worlds than they bargained for.  Bookverse ficlet with a sprinkling of other fandoms. Digory/Polly friendship fluff. NFE 2010 entry.
1. Part One

_A/N: This fic was written by Sushi for gothic_hamlet over the summer for Narnia Fic Exchange 2010 at . Enjoy! :)_

* * *

Britain was boring.

Digory knew it wasn't her fault—after all, people would be people, no matter what world they came from, and the British people were just more focused on industrialism and imperialism and other isms than others. Every good schoolchild knew that the sun never ever set on the British Empire (and that fact made for a very serious lot of grownups).

Still, it was with a distinct sense of melancholy that Digory looked out of his bedroom window onto the grey, damp, dirty streets of London.

He had never been a very "country" fellow, that he readily admitted—years of living near the cotton district coupled with the family's weak constitution had grown him into a rather asthmatic and bookish lad. While his schoolmates chased each other through the streets and talked buoyantly about their holiday adventures in the heaths of Scotland or the pebbly beaches of the lake country, Digory read encyclopedias and preferred to stay in the boroughs of civilized England.

(Once, when he was very young and his mother was well, the family took a holiday to Wales, and Digory and his cousin went on a butterfly-hunting expedition, which ended in scraped knees and a squashed butterfly. That was the end of hunting expeditions, butterfly or otherwise, for young Digory.)

But ever since his Narnian Adventure—he called it that, even though the adventure wasn't just in Narnia; it was a much friendlier word than _Charn_—Digory found himself practically itching to go clambering about in the dirty outdoors. He could hardly explain it, but it was as if the snakes and snails and puppydog tails lying dormant inside every young boy had been stirred awake in him and were now begging to return to their places of origin. He was jealous of Clarence Holmes and his father's purebred hunting ponies; he found himself wishing he was Ollie Richardson and went to the seaside every weekend to go fishing and sailing.

Polly felt the same way. Oh, how often Digory had chided her for losing her sense of adventure whenever the need for one really arose; but now, all he had to do was mention the possibility of the existence of some sort of heretofore-unknown fairy knoll or hollow tree trunk in some little-frequented urban park, and she was rolling up the sleeves of her frilly pinafore and marching out into the garden with him in tow.

In fact, they had been just about to carry out one of these pseudo-reconnoiters when Mrs. Plummer—a woman who, a product of her Victorian parentage, at a very young age had made it her life's ambition to avoid at all costs the signs of age, whether it be childhood or adulthood, and was intent on impressing the same genteel and wrinkle-free behavior upon her daughter—called out in an imperious manner:

"Polly Plummer, have you washed your face?"

Polly paused halfway out the back door, one foot on the dirty stoop and the other in the kitchen. She looked plaintively at Digory, who was already in the garden, but under the burning gaze of the white-capped cook, called back, "No, Mother." To Digory, she muttered, "That's _her_ way of telling me to get my embroidery."

Digory shoved his hands in his pockets. "Shall I wait for you, then?"

"Polly!"

Polly started to shrug, then stopped because shrugging was hardly ladylike. "Oh, don't bother…I'm afraid I shall be kept captive all afternoon."

He nodded, and she darted inside, letting the door slam behind her. "Bad luck, ain't it?" said the gardener next door, punctuating his words with a snip and the rustle of falling foliage.

Digory squinted against the mist and said, as he went into his own house, "I don't believe in luck."

* * *

The hours ticked by. Mother went out with Aunt Letty to do some shopping at about a quarter past two, and Digory took his tea alone in the parlor. It was quite lonely, sitting there in the chintz chair and eating fish paste on biscuits with no one to tease him about the way he nibbled them.

After the cook took his dishes away, Digory, confined to the indoors by a steady, depressing rain that had started up shortly after luncheon, climbed the stairs to the highest room of the house, that whitewashed attic space in which the moving crates were already starting to crowd Uncle Andrew's desk and other sundry belongings. The old man had gone quite soft since the Narnian Adventure, and was now almost harmless, if not a little sad to behold.

As it were, he had his back to the door, and was busily fussing with some of these possessions, so determinedly that he did not hear Digory come in.

"Uncle Andrew," said Digory.

Uncle Andrew peered over his shoulder. "Ah, there you are, boy. Tell me, what do you think?"

And he stepped away, revealing a rather ordinary and musty-looking moving crate with bits of packing hay peeking out from between the slats.

"I think it looks…neat," said Digory uncomfortably.

Uncle Andrew sighed. "I hoped as much. They look so much nicer when they're packed away, don't you think?"

Digory had absolutely no idea what it was Uncle Andrew was talking about, so he cleared his throat. "You missed tea again."

"Oh, did I?" murmured Andrew, fussing with the packing hay.

"Yes. And Mother says all this must be packed up by next week—Father's coming home soon and then we're to move to the country, you know."

"Mhmm…"

"Uncle Andrew…?"

The man blinked. "Ah, Digory! I nearly forgot. I'm expecting a visitor very soon, and I shall need you to help me hail a taxicab for her when the time comes."

"Who is it?" Digory sat on one of the crates.

Uncle Andrew bustled about the room, picking up all his strange little devices and depositing them into the crate he had just been admiring. "It's to be my fairy godmother, Digory m'boy, and I'm hardly sending her away empty-handed."

Nothing surprised Digory anymore. "I thought you said she had died. In prison." After all, it's details like this that tend to stick in little boys' minds.

"Oh, no, no, no—well, rather—Mrs. Lefay, my _first_ godmother did. But she always said, 'If good Mrs. Lefay should die and little Andrew be without a godmother, my sister shall take my place.' That's right, I'm giving the second Mrs. Lefay—Morgan, I think—back all these blasted magic books and wizard's apparatuses. One and alike, those sisters." He tutted.

"Can I see them before you give them back?"

As he spoke, Digory reached out to feel in the crate, but Uncle Andrew slapped his hand away. "These are no playthings for little boys," he said imperiously.

Digory sighed. "Can I at least meet her?"

"Meet her! Of course. But only for a moment. She's dangerous, you know. Damned cunning."

Digory was in the midst of trying to reason with Uncle Andrew that fairy godmothers aren't usually the kind to be dangerous and cunning, when the bell buzzed in the landing downstairs. Uncle Andrew started like a rabbit and began tossing the rest of the accoutrements into the crate, and Digory went down the stairs to greet this mysterious woman, his hands in his pockets.

It was just Polly that the maid let in, though, and Digory said so.

"_Just_ Polly?" Polly scoffed. "Well, how's that for a 'good-afternoon'?"

"That isn't what I meant," Digory protested. "Uncle Andrew's expecting a mysterious guest, that's all."

"Oooh," said Polly, peering up the staircase as if she could see through the ceiling. "Who is it?"

"He said it's his fairy godmother. Or, something of that sort."

"How perfectly curious," said Polly. "D'you suppose we can meet her?"

Digory was proud of her. "I asked, and Uncle Andrew agreed."

Polly grinned and started up the stairs, dragging Digory along with her. They found Uncle Andrew exactly where Digory had left him, puttering about the small study; he scarcely glanced at the children as they sat down on crates. "Is Mrs. Lefay here yet?" he asked Digory.

"No, Uncle Andrew."

Polly shivered a little, looking about the room. "I won't miss this room," she whispered. "Perhaps that's the only thing I won't miss about your family when you move to the country."

Digory shrugged. "It's not so bad, I think," he said.

"Oh, yes it is."

"No, it isn't!"

"Children," interrupted Uncle Andrew, springing to the door, "Mrs. Lefay is here! Digory, boy, come and help me with her."

"I'll just stay here, then," muttered Polly as Digory took the stairs two at a time.

The maid was just letting the mysterious guest into the house when he reached the bottom. Mrs. Lefay was a little old woman, indeed, and looked almost exactly like her less-alive sister, the picture of whom Uncle Andrew had long ago broken.

"Hullo," said Digory.

The woman turned to him as the maid took her coat, and he caught his breath. She had the keenest, most calculating blue eyes he had ever seen; they stared out at him from a white face webbed with deep wrinkles.

"You must be Digory Kirke, lambie," said she, folding her hands over her cane.

Digory nodded, swallowing. The woman's eyes reminded him uncomfortably of someone else's, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

She smiled. "I've been waiting to meet you. Elaine told me all about you."

"Elaine?" Digory stammered. He may have been a brave boy, but even brave boys know that it's very strange for people you don't know to be talking at length about you.

"My sister, little duck, Elaine." Mrs. Lefay waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, let's not dwell on the past. Help an old woman upstairs, won't you?"

If Digory had been properly raised by a mother who read him fairy tales at bedtime, he would know that touching a witch is the absolute last thing one should do, but he had been brought up by a strict nanny who thought that fairy tales were nonsense and that little boys should learn about cogs and gears before bed. So he slipped a hand under Mrs. Lefay's arm in the most gentlemanly way he could muster, and then, suddenly, she didn't seem quite so bad anymore.

Uncle Andrew met them halfway up the staircase. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Lefay," he said stiffly.

"So good to see you, Andrew," said Mrs. Lefay.

Uncle Andrew made a very big show of not touching the woman as Digory guided her the rest of the way up the stairs and into the study. At their entrance, Polly leapt up from the big leather chair behind Uncle Andrew's desk and made way for the woman.

"Right," said Uncle Andrew. "Now, Mrs. Lefay, I'm giving you—"

Mrs. Lefay lifted a single white, spiderwebbed hand, and Andrew immediately fell silent. "Andrew, dear, would you be so kind as to fetch me a cup of tea? I find myself quite thirsty."

The gears could be seen turning slowly in Uncle Andrew's head, and at last he evidently decided that there was nothing inherently bad about a cup of tea, so he bowed in a manner that reminded Digory of a bird and said, "Right. Digory, be a chap and come round with me."

Digory wasn't sure how much help he would be, but he left with Uncle Andrew. "Have you met this Mrs. Lefay?" Digory asked when they reached the landing.

"Once or twice," Uncle Andrew replied rather uncomfortably.

It wasn't until they had reached the hot kitchen that he spoke again, and this time it was only to the cook, ordering her to boil water for tea. Digory stood around for a minute or two, his hands in his pockets, and then, when Uncle Andrew wasn't paying attention, he slipped back upstairs to Mrs. Lefay.

Polly had evidently lowered her guard, for when Digory came back into the study, her head was in Mrs. Lefay's lap, and Mrs. Lefay was gently stroking the tangles out of her long blonde hair, speaking all the while in a soothing tone.

"Oh, Digory," said Polly in a languished tone, "it's simply wonderful."

"What is?" he asked, perplexed.

"Mrs. Lefay has found a way to get us back to Aslan and Narnia!" Polly sighed.

Digory went a little cold, then a little hot at the prospect.

"Call me Morgan," said Mrs. Lefay with a smile.

"I told her all about our adventures," Polly went on, "and she says she can help us!"

"It is simple magic, really," said Mrs. Lefay, her blue eyes glittering.

"Oh, can we please?" Polly said.

The answer seemed to be pulled out of Digory's mouth without his bidding. "Yes, can we?"

Mrs. Lefay gently sat Polly up and helped her to her feet. "Of course, children. Now, stand together."

Digory and Polly did so without question, clasping hands and standing shoulder to shoulder.

"You must stand perfectly still," said the witch. "Otherwise, the spell won't work."

They were still as statues.

"_Raul si intuneric parand limba ar trebui sa mearga aici trimite aceste mai intr o lume departe_!" intoned the old woman.

Digory started to feel a bit woozy, and he grasped for Uncle Andrew's desk until he realized that it was the _room_ that was moving, not him.

"Just hold still," came Mrs. Lefay's distorted voice. "Oh, and keep in mind, little guppies, that I really don't know where Narnia is."

Polly's hand clenched on Digory's, and the last glimpse they had of Our World was of Uncle Andrew's horrified face as he burst through the doorway.


	2. Part Two

Digory and Polly landed with a bit of a bump.

"With all of Mrs. Lefay's magic," said Polly a bit crossly, rubbing her bottom, "one would think she would cushion the landing a smidgen."

Digory, however, was looking about them. They had come to rest in the middle of a field; there were sheep grazing quietly on a nearby down, and a low pile fence stretched across the green landscape.

"Do you think this is Narnia?" he asked Polly.

She looked. "No," she said at last in a quiet voice. "It's too…drab."

It was the best word for the situation, in Digory's opinion. Compared to the young freshness of Narnia, this…place, wherever it was, seemed dingy and faded. His heart sank.

"Mrs. Lefay never told us how to get home, did she?" he asked, even though he knew the answer.

"I thought we would live in Narnia forever," Polly whispered.

Digory sat in silence. "Well," he sighed, "I suppose there's nothing to it but pluck and some brains. We did it once, Polly, and I think we can do it again."

Polly set her jaw and rolled up the sleeves of her pinafore. "Right, then. Pluck and brains. D'you think a plan might help?"

"I think so, yes."

"All right. Here's what we'll do. Let's try to go to the nearest city, yes? Maybe someone there can direct us to a train station, or hail us a hackney."

Digory chewed his nails. "Something tells me Narnia didn't have train stations," he said. "And I doubt this place will, either."

"Then _you_ invent a plan," Polly said crossly, "if you think you're so smart."

He was about to tell her in a rather smart-alecky manner that yes, he _did_ think himself so smart, when over the top of the nearest hill came first a fluttering banner, then the pole the banner was mounted on, and then the head and the body of the person carrying the banner.

"How curious," mused Polly, summing up Digory's thoughts completely.

The person carrying the banner was mounted on a high-stepping palomino horse, and alongside him on a very small pony indeed, with his knees bent almost to his chin, was a very funny-looking boy. They were both dressed in the most outlandish clothes you can imagine—or perhaps you can, because Polly and Digory never paid much attention in history class. In fact, the palomino-rider and the funny-looking boy were dressed in the manner of eleventh-century knights and squires, and the palomino-rider's palomino was outfitted with a splendid white costume that fluttered around its legs as it trotted towards them. (But of course, Digory and Polly could not be bothered to learn the significance of such a getup, and so they stared quite boorishly.)

"Ho, there!" cried the palomino-rider, waving the banner of white and red.

"I think he's talking to us," whispered Polly.

"I hope not," replied Digory, looking at the strangers' sharp weapons and queer clothing.

The palomino-rider waved the banner at them again. "I say, ho, there!"

Polly waved, but Digory caught her hand and dragged it down. "Hello," she called out in spite of him.

There was nothing left for the two of them to do but wait until the riders approached and pulled their horses to a halt, blowing and snorting and otherwise quite intimidating poor Digory. "Well met, good friends," said the palomino-rider broadly.

"Er, good afternoon," said Polly.

"By mine heart, but thou art dressed mighty strange for this place," the rider continued, eyeing them curiously. "Art thou visitors in our fair land?"

"One might say that," answered Polly. "And actually—"

"My good friends!" cried the rider right over Polly's sentence. "Why hadst thou not said so upon our earliest meeting? I fear thou hast been met with the sorest hospitality, and thou must believe the worst about gentle Camelot!"

Digory and Polly gaped at one another, and then at the rider, though, on the whole, this was not exactly unexpected. After all, Digory reasoned many years later, one _could_ see the resemblance between Narnia and early Anglo-Saxon Britain.

At any rate, it took the pair of them a moment or two to recover from their shock, and they did so to find palomino-rider looking down at them with concern. "Thine travels hath been long?" he asked.

"One might say that," it was Digory's turn to say.

"Then I," said the rider, "Launcelot du Lac, do take it upon mine self, as an act only befitting a knight of the highest order of the Table and of the Oath Pentecostal, to bring thee, weary travelers, unto rest most sweet and…er…"

Launcelot, as he had so circuitously introduced himself, paused and frowned in thought.

"Restful?" offered Digory.

"Indeed! I, Launcelot du Lac, shall bring thee unto rest most sweet and restful in the bosom of my lord, King Arthur, and his court."

He smiled down at them, and Digory felt the urge one sometimes gets in the theatre to applaud the end of a lengthy monologue if for no other reason than to thank the actor for getting it over with so quickly.

"Erm," said Polly, "thank you. I am Polly, and this is Digory."

"Well met, strange friends," said Launcelot. "Claudas!"

The angular boy that was seated upon the tiny pony finally sat up straight. "Yes, my master?"

Launcelot waved a gauntleted hand at him. "Give our friends thy steed."

Claudas made a face, but clambered off of the pony (who groaned) and bowed low to Polly and Digory, who stared at each other and the dirty little creature until Claudas elbowed Digory in the ribs.

"Camelot is but a moment's ride over yonder hills," said Launcelot once Digory and Polly were more or less comfortably situated on the pony's back. "Thee needst fear no harm nor censure there."

"It worries me that he feels it necessary to tell us this," Polly whispered in Digory's ear, tightening her arms around his waist.

He swallowed hard.

Launcelot hadn't been lying—Camelot's iron-grey stone walls and fluttering bannerets became visible just minutes after they had all mounted up, Claudas jogging along beside the fat pony. It was not nearly as big as all the storybooks had led Digory to believe; rather, it was an almost dirty little building, not something one would prefer to imagine romantic heroes living in.

Nevertheless, Launcelot was as good as his word. Stopping in the middle of a dirty, noisy courtyard, he deposited Polly and Digory on the ground and sent the horses off to the stables with a glum-faced Claudas. "Come," he said to them. "I believe that my lord will share some of the palace luncheon with thee."

Digory wanted to say that "no, thank you, I'm quite full of fish paste and biscuits," but Launcelot didn't look like the kind of man you say "no, thank you" to. So they followed him into the castle through a low little doorway.

Based on all the books he'd read as an adventure-starved little boy, Digory had been hoping for a dark and gothic castle, or at least one with portcullises and a few hooded falcons resting on wooden perches, but Camelot's interior was quite unremarkable; it had a tapestry or two, but other than that it looked rather like a large stone box with dirty floors and tiny windows.

He huffed.

"Is not Camelot the loveliest of all citadels?" Launcelot said with an admiring and almost besotted sigh.

"Very pretty," Polly answered, though Digory guessed that she said this only to appease him.

They came to a pair of large doors, in front of which stood two red-robed guards. "Wait here, good friends," Launcelot told them, and went into the room behind the doors which the guards so obligingly opened for him. Digory and Polly had a brief glimpse of a high-ceilinged chamber filled with people and tables before the doors closed again and they were left in the dank corridor with only the two guards and a muttering old servant with a long white beard for company.

"I hope he hurries," whispered Polly anxiously, feeling for Digory's hand in the dark.

The old servant, nearing them, stopped his whispering and looked up at Digory with sharp eyes. "Is old Queen Vicky dead yet, then?"

Digory started, unsure if what he had heard was correct. "Pardon me?"

The old man made a grand gesture. "Dead, boy! As in, no more. Ceased to be. Expired. Gone to meet her maker. An ex-Victoria. Last time I was in England, you see, I believe she was quite tottering on the verge…"

"Erm…yes, last January, actually," Polly answered. "Or something to that effect. But…you said, the last time you were in England."

The old man looked blithely at her. "Yes?"

Polly bit her lip. "Aren't we still in England? I mean…"

"Well, yes," conceded the man, shrugging his bony shoulders, "in a manner of speaking. But your England, and _this_ England…well, we could almost say they were different worlds!"

His reedy laugh made the guards stare. "Oh, yes, intercentennial tourism is a little-known perk of the sorcerous arts. But, dear me—you two look quite settled. I may presume you are used to traveling between worlds?"

Digory had been listening silently, but as he watched the slightly distracted actions of the old man, a sudden thought struck him. "Look here," he interrupted, "are you Merlin?"

"Some call me that," Merlin answered, tucking his hands into his sleeves.

"Are you really a wizard, then?" Polly asked breathlessly.

"I dabble." Merlin rocked on his heels and looked maddeningly superior.

Polly leaned over and said into Digory's ear: "We got here by magic, Digory. Maybe _he_ can get us into Narnia!"

"How's that, now?" asked Merlin, tipping forward. "Mahmeea, did you say? I thought you were from New Britain."

"We are," Polly said with infinite patience. "But, see, we don't want to go back there; we want to go to Narnia. It's…well, we were trying to get there, but Mrs. Lefay—Morgan," she added with a growl, "dropped us here."

"Morgan Lefay, you say?" said Merlin, his eyebrows going up so high they nearly disappeared in his frizzy white hair.

"_Yes_," Polly answered with a little less patience this time.

Merlin growled quite fearsomely, causing the two children to back up a step or two. "I should have known. Oh, that witch will be the death of me, I swear it…So, she sent you here, instead of this Narnia you speak of. Do I sum that up correctly?"

"Yes," Digory said. "But just wait a moment…you _know_ Mrs. Lefay?"

The old man nodded. "I usually don't take to undoing the work of other mages. A wizard's code of honor, you know."

Digory's heart sank, despite the many questions now popping up in his head.

"But," said Merlin, twirling his beard, "…ooh, I would give just about anything to teach that old bat a lesson."

"Oh, thank you," cried Polly, clasping her hands under her chin. "We _so_ want to get back to Narnia!"

He twirled his hands and then clapped them together. "Describe it to me, children—just the bare facts, mind, and I'll do what I can."

"It was new," said Digory after a moment's pause. "I can't think of another word to describe it. It was…fresh and new."

Polly nodded. "As if one would never grow old there."

"I understand completely," said Merlin with a smile. "Now, hold very still."

He came over to them, shaking back his voluminous sleeves, and put a hand on their shoulders. "_Nu stiu unde_," he began to mutter. "_Sa trimita aceste ciudat copii, si acum voi doar sa le trimita undeva altceva_!"

The dank walls of the castle began to spin around them, and Polly grabbed Digory's hand with an iron grip. Just before he closed his eyes, he saw Launcelot's astonished face, and then they were gone.

* * *

_A/N: Thanks for reading! To answer the question of one of our reviewers from last time—the languages that have been used so far are, I believe, Romanian or some other anglicized Cyrillic language. I wanted a language for the spells that would sound foreign and strange and that I didn't have to make up, haha!_


	3. Part Three

The landing this time was no less bumpy than the one that had brought Polly and Digory into Camelot in the first place, but instead of landing on a thin patch of grass, they scraped and slid into something warm and grainy.

The sun beat down on his face as Digory put his hand up and opened his eyes. If he had been a normal little boy, he would have known the scene at once as a tropical beach; as it was, though, he had never been to the seashore, and only knew about sand and sea because of picture books. We must be nice about it, though, because in the bright blue sky above his head hung not one, but seven suns of varying sizes and shades of yellow.

Polly got up on his left and, shading her eyes, walked a few paces forward to where the turquoise waters met the white sand. "Is _this_ Narnia?" she asked finally.

Digory stood up, bits of sand slipping down into his stockings. "I don't know. I don't remember trees like that there."

Together, he and Polly looked at the perplexing flora that popped up here and there from the sand. They had read about palm trees, of course, but had never actually seen one in person, and so were rightfully puzzled.

"Oh," said Polly suddenly. Digory turned to see what she had 'oh'ed about and saw that she was standing with her back to the water and pointing up at the scenery behind him: three mountains, forested with trees of all imaginable colors, jutted up towards the sky, wisps of white clouds circling the peaks like fluffy hats. It appeared that they were on an island, for in the distance, obscured by fog and mist, were more mountains, but were connected with each other in no conceivable way.

"I don't think this is Narnia," he said frankly.

Polly heaved a sigh. "Oh, this _is_ nice. And that daft magician said he knew exactly what we were talking about! Now where are we?"

"Never-Land," came an answering voice.

Digory and Polly spun around, getting more sand in their stockings. Sitting on a rock jutting from the water's surface a few feet from the shore was a beautiful woman, probably about twice Digory's age, humming gently and playing with her long red hair. Between braiding it and coiling it between her fingers, she looked at Digory with demure smiles.

"Wh-what?" he said, eloquently.

"Never-Land," repeated the creature. "You're in Never-Land."

Polly tugged insistently on Digory's sleeve, and he elbowed her crossly. "_Look_!" she hissed, pointing at the rock the girl was sitting on.

It took Digory a moment, but at last he realized that, instead of legs, the creature had a glistening silver fish tail!

"A mermaid!" he yelped unintentionally, but the girl only smiled.

"You're observant," she said, abandoning her hair-playing and slipping down into the water up to her shoulders. "I would reward that."

Digory was flattered. "How?"

The mermaid laughed a bit and beckoned to him. "Come and see! I can show you all sorts of beauties and marvelous things, the likes of which you have never seen!"

Polly grabbed for his shirt, but Digory shook free and, removing his shoes and stockings, waded into the water. It was warm, and his skin tingled with the sensation.

"Digory!"

"Oh, shut up, Polly," he yelled back. "If you're too boring to come along, you can just stay here."

The mermaid laughed again and reached for his hand.

Suddenly, there was a whoosh of air, a sharp splash, a shriek, and the mermaid let go of him. Digory was about to turn and shout at Polly for throwing stones or whatever she had done to scare away his new friend, but a loud screeching rent the air, and small but sharp objects began to crash into the water. The mermaid screamed and shook her fist at the unseen enemy, then turned and swam away from what Digory finally realized were handmade arrows.

"Digory, you nincompoop, run!" Polly yelled from the shore.

He didn't need to be told twice. Shielding his head from the makeshift missiles, he slogged through the water and stumbled onto the sand, tripping once or twice before he managed to make it to Polly and grab her by the hand.

"I wish we had stayed in London!" he forced out, jumping with her over a fallen log.

From behind them, there came a loud, rather obnoxious birdcall, almost like a crowing rooster. "After them, boys! Take no prisoners!"

Polly let out a whimper and widened her paces. "Let's to the trees," she said breathlessly. "We might lose them in there!"

Digory had no breath left with which to reply, so he only nodded, ducked his head, and plunged with her right into the underbrush. Almost instantly, the sounds of their pursuers were muted, and Polly's gasping breaths seemed twice as loud in comparison.

"Do you think we lost them?" Digory whispered.

Polly shook her head, and together they hurried further into the foliage, so intent on their escape that they didn't realize that the terrain was gradually sloping upwards: they were headed into the mountains.

Suddenly, from right behind Digory, there was a loud crash, a voice called out triumphantly, "I think I've got 'em, Peter!" and the whole wood was filled with whooping and hollering.

Digory felt the hair rise on the back of his neck, and despite Polly's admonitions of "I think we've just got to face this like men, you know," dropped to his knees and wiggled into the contorted roots of an old, purple-leaved tree. Polly joined him in a moment, dirty-faced and rather annoyed that Digory (of all people) would choose now to be a namby-pampy.

"I don't know _why_—" she began, but Digory shushed her desperately, and so they waited in silence. Their pursuers were good, that much he had to admit. Only the occasional "Not here!" and broken twig gave away their positions.

There came another obnoxious rooster call. "I know you're around here somewhere," cried the voice. "You're not supposed to ruin the fun by hiding, you know! It's not fair."

"I can't help but feel," said Polly in a low voice, despite Digory's silent gestures, "that they're just playing."

"'Playing'?" he hissed. "They shot at us with—with _arrows_, Polly!"

"They're laughing."

"They're loonies."

She glared at him. "Well, as a wise boy once said, 'if you're too boring to come, you can just stay here.'" And so, without further ado, she crawled out of the hiding spot.

Digory covered his eyes, though it was less with fear of seeing bloodshed than with guilt. Polly had been such a brick—she hadn't deserved his abuse, not one bit! He couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for himself, if only for a minute; as wet and dreary as London seemed, he rather missed it.

"Aha!" came the rooster-calling voice. "I knew you were in there somewhere. Are you going to come quietly or not?"

"Not, I think," said Polly. Peeking out, Digory could just see her shoes, scuffed and dusty from all the unladylike activity they had seen.

"Oh?"

"Yes. I'd rather like it if you'd come down from there and talk to me like a civilized person, too, rather than flitting about in that unseemly manner."

Digory could bear it no longer. If he sprawled on his stomach, he could just see Polly and the person she was talking to, and so he did just that. It was a boy his age, or thereabouts, dressed in the most curious outfit of green vines and cobwebs, and with a jaunty cap of the same material perched on his head. Crowded around him, peering at Polly from over his shoulder and around his ankles, were five or six rag-tag little boys, all garbed in the same uniform as the speaker.

"Much better," Polly was saying. "Now I feel quite more comfortable."

The boy in green walked around her, staring quite openly. Digory couldn't help but get the impression that he wasn't stepping on the ground as much as just skimming it with his toes; but that was quite crazy—children can't fly!

"You're not a redskin," he said.

"Well, I should think not," said Polly indignantly. "I'm from London."

"What's…Lon-Don?" asked the green boy.

"It's a city," she explained.

"I've never been there."

"You should go, someday. Quite lovely. But, who are you?"

He grinned crookedly. "I'm Peter Pan. Who're you?"

"Polly," said Polly stoutly. "And this is Digory." And she reached down and pulled at Digory's hand until he had no choice but to crawl out of his hiding spot and stand rather awkwardly in front of the motley crew.

"'Ello, Digory," they all chorused with such a wave of enthusiasm that he had to take a step back.

Peter Pan stared at them, picking his teeth with a twig. "You're not from 'round here, are you?"

"Not at all," Polly answered.

As if that settled it, Peter Pan put his hands on his hips and nodded to his followers. "They'll have to stay with us, boys!"

The wild band cheered, Polly's face lit up, but Digory's heart fell. "But Polly," he whispered, "what about _Narnia_?"

"Oh." The glint in Polly's eyes went out. "I'd quite forgotten. I guess…well, it just seems like we won't ever get there, not at this rate."

"Get where?" said Peter Pan. Digory realized with a start that somehow, the boy had thwarted the law of gravity and was hovering right above them, his hat dangerously close to falling off of his head and landing on Polly's.

"Nowhere," said Digory at the same time Polly said, "Narnia."

"Never heard of it," said Peter Pan.

"Well, we want to get there," said Polly. "Do you know how we might get off?"

Peter Pan tilted his head. "Get off what?"

"This _island_," Digory broke in.

"Why would you want to get off Never-Land?"

This question was posited by one of the scruffy-looking boys, but all the others, including Peter Pan, nodded emphatically.

"It's not so much that we want to get _off_ Never-Land," said Polly politely, "as it is we want to get _to_ Narnia."

Peter Pan flitted about their heads (quite irritatingly, in Digory's opinion). "I suppose that isn't so bad. But I still don't—"

He paused very suddenly, putting his head to one side and apparently listening very intently to something close by.

"I _told_ you," said Digory to Polly, "he's a loony!"

She shushed him as Peter's eyebrows went up. "Tink!" he crowed. "That's brilliant!"

The rag-tag boys gasped and applauded.

"What's brilliant?" asked Digory. "And who's 'Tink'?"

Peter Pan ignored him. "Here's what we'll do," he said, bobbing excitedly in midair. "Fairy dust! Tink will give you some, and you'll fly to Narnia. You know the way?"

"I think," said Polly rather uncertainly. "South?"

Clapping his hands, Peter Pan said, "Then it's settled! Tink—if you please."

Digory wanted desperately to grab Polly's hand and run as fast as he possibly could far away from these strange people, but before he could, there was a tickling sensation at his nose and then all down his back, and he shivered.

"The way you learn to fly," Peter Pan said, flipping upside down and tucking his arms behind his head, "is fairy dust, and your favorite, most happiest memories. Go on, think of them!"

Digory felt quite foolish. Indeed, it is very hard to think of anything at all when you have ten strangers staring expectantly at you, not least one's closest, fondest memories.

But gradually, the less he thought about it, the more he remembered—the day he met Polly and began to have fun again—seeing the Great Lion for the first time—flying on Fledge's back—his mother sitting up in bed for the first time.

Polly gasped. "Digory!"

He then realized that, instead of standing with his feet planted on the ground, he was suspended in midair! Polly was hovering next to him, her bow lifting and settling as she bobbed up and down, holding her arms out like a pair of wings.

"You don't need to do that, you know," said Peter Pan airily, stretching out on his back and drifting past.

Digory started to tilt sideways. "Well, how does one fly, then?"

"You just…fly!"

The advice didn't help Digory at all, but then Polly was suddenly soaring far above his head, laughing and whooping and knocking leaves off of their branches. He was very jealous in that moment, and kicked out with his legs as though he were swimming in his bathtub, and _whoosh_! he shot upwards.

"You've got the idea!" called Peter Pan.

"Is this all we do?" Polly asked, leaning back as if she were settling into an exceptionally soft feather mattress. "I mean, to get to Narnia and all."

Peter Pan zipped up to hover over Polly. "Why, sure! Although…are you absolutely, positively, _definitely_ sure you won't stay in Never-Land?"

"Absolutely, positively, definitely," Polly said firmly, looking over at Digory with a nod.

"Then tally-ho!"

Peter Pan saluted jauntily, and as if they were of one mind, Digory and Polly pushed themselves higher and higher into the sky, pushing aside the branches of trees until, finally—they broke out into warm sunshine.

"To Narnia?" Digory asked.

"To Narnia!" Polly cried, then took his hand and pulled him with her towards the wide expanse of glittering sea.


	4. Part Four

The waves rushed by unceasingly beneath the two children as they flew southward, buoyed by the potent fairy dust sprinkled upon them by the unseen Tink. The sun grew hot on the backs of their necks, and their skin, accustomed only to the drab and smog-smothered London sun, began to burn. Digory quickly started to think that this whole venture was a stupid idea to begin with, and that deciding to fly from an unknown location to another unknown location was the stupidest of all the other stupid decisions they had made that day. How were they supposed to know where Narnia was? What would happen if they got tired and land was nowhere to be seen? As it was, there was nothing behind or before them except water and more water.

Time passed. It might have been hours, but Digory and Polly couldn't keep track; all they knew was that the sun was setting rapidly in the west, and still there was no land to be seen! Despite this, neither of them said anything but things like "This is quite relaxing, don't you think?" and "Look at that lovely sky!"

At long last, Digory noticed that the water seemed rather closer than it had before. At first, he thought it was just his exhausted brain playing tricks on him; but as their travels drew on, he began to feel the occasional faint spray of saltwater on his legs and arms, something they had previously been too high in the air to experience.

"Polly," he said nervously, "does it seem to you that—"

"That we're falling?" Polly finished, her voice much higher than normal. "Why, yes, it does."

The feeling was gradual, but they both realized that, no matter how hard they tried, whatever fairy dust had been sprinkled on them was rapidly wearing off, and they were plunging towards an unfathomably cold and deep ocean.

Suddenly, over the rush of wind and waves, Polly let out a cry. "Look, Digory! Ships!"

Digory looked so quickly in the direction she pointed that he cricked his neck. But sure enough, off to their right was a fleet of ten or more masted sailing ships, each bearing sails of bright white canvas. He chided himself for not seeing them before, but then realized that the yellow light of the setting sun had obscured them from his sight.

"I think we can reach them," Digory said to Polly. "If we're lucky, we can land on the deck of one!"

"Oh, I do hope they're not pirates," she said as they sank lower and lower.

"I hope it's the White Star Line," Digory said.

As they neared the surface of the water, though, the ships suddenly became less like the theatrically charming sailboats of the children's previous experience and more like churning, thrashing, hurrying machines of ancient warfare. Long oars jutted from both sides of each vessel, turning in unison and leaving huge wakes as the rowers worked in tandem with the gentle wind; the sails snapped and billowed on masts and ropes that were much higher from the decks than Digory had first thought; long and treacherous mastheads were painted black and red, and shields of varying colors and designs lined the decks.

Digory gulped.

The two children sank lower and lower, faster and faster, until they had to lift up their feet to avoid getting tangled in the rigging of ships they passed over. Occasionally, sailors spotted them and would point and shout, but their words were lost in the clamor of water against wood and wind in sail.

"This is our last chance, Digory," Polly cried, pointing to the head ship. They had not yet been able to land on a deck, but were rapidly nearing the point of no return—their only hope was the craft that seemed to be the most important: its sails were purple, and it was leading the other eleven boats by a distance significant enough to be noticeable but not nearly enough so to be considered separate.

"You first," Digory shouted back, nearly losing his balance as one foot caught on a wave.

Polly hopped in midair, landed on the railing, teetered a moment, and then stepped down onto the deck. For a moment, Digory watched her greet the sailors, her white bow bobbing, but then the next second, both his feet were sinking in the water; he grasped for the side of the ship, but it was too late—an oar came swinging around, drenched whatever parts of him were still dry, and then struck him mightily on the side of the head.

* * *

When Digory awoke, it was long past sunset, and the inky blackness of ocean nighttime was pierced only by sputtering torches. The smoke burned his aching eyes, and he heard Polly say, "Oh, good. You're awake."

"My head," was the only thing Digory could think to say.

"Very clever," said Polly dryly. "Really, Digory Kirke, I'd expected more of you."

Digory squinted at her; he could barely make out her face in the dim light. "My head _hurts_."

"That's slightly better, although I had hoped you would tell me something I hadn't already guessed. No, don't touch it!"

He had reached up to feel the aching tenderness at his temple, and just before Polly snatched his hand away, he felt the uncomfortable stiffness of dried blood. "Oh, dear."

"I _told_ you not to touch it."

Wrinkling his nose at her, he pushed himself up on his elbows and surveyed the scene. He was laying on a rough blanket at the side of one of the ships (he supposed it was the purple-sailed one, although it was too dark to see the color) with Polly at his side; in front of them, facing away, sat two dozen or so men who, having pulled in their oars for the night, were drinking and playing games of dice.

"I'm sorry for leaving you alone for so long," he said guiltily.

"Oh, don't be," Polly said lightly, sitting Indian-style. "They're quite nice."

"Who are they?"

She shrugged. "They don't speak a word of English. Mind you, I do recognize some of the words, but I don't know what they mean. They seem to have picked up our names, though, so theirs can't be too far from ours."

Digory frowned. "I take it they're not Narnian, then."

"Not Narnian, no."

"Then what are we to do?"

Polly looked up. "Here comes one of them, I think he's seen that you're awake. I think he's in charge around here, but one can't be sure."

The man approaching them was rather short by Digory's standards, and his beard was long and unkempt, his skin leathered, but his eyes sharp and knowing, as if he'd seen more than any mortal before him. With a long, scarred finger, he pointed at Digory. "_Pws kefali soy_?"

Digory blinked. "I don't speak…your language, sir."

The man frowned. "_To kefali sas_," he said, touching his own temple with a questioning look.

Digory began to understand. "My head? Oh…" He touched the wound and grimaced.

"Brilliant, Digory!" said Polly.

Nodding, the man took a ceramic jar and offered it to Polly, who looked at it quizzically. "What is it?" she asked, pointing and shrugging rather theatrically.

"_Nero_," said the man, making drinking motions with his hand. "_Poto ayto, tha kalytera_."

"He wants us to drink it," Digory translated.

"I do realize that," Polly said dryly. She took a long drink from the jar. "Mm. It's cool."

"What is?" Digory asked, his own mouth salivating.

She handed it to him. "Water."

Water had never tasted so good. Digory hadn't thought he'd been thirsty, but the minute the water touched his lips, he felt as dry as a desert.

When he'd finished, he handed the jar back to the man with a sheepish look. "Thank you."

"_Epith_," said the man with a smile. He then placed a hand on his chest. "_Eimai o Odysseus. Odysseus_."

"I think he's saying that is name is Odysseus," Polly said. "Now, where have I heard that name before?"

Now, Digory and Polly hadn't been paying attention in history class when their teacher discussed Arthurian legend, but Digory had had the benefit of a bookish father who enjoyed regaling his son with tales of ancient Greek heroes. Grabbing Polly's sleeve, he said, "Odysseus! The _Odyssey_—we are a _very_ long way from Narnia, Polly."

Polly sat back, utterly defeated. "Oh. Oh, oh, oh."

Odysseus looked on, evidently under the impression that he had done something to offend.

"I am Digory," Digory said, sitting up with an effort and wracking his brains for some way to get this information across to the Greek hero. Touching his clothes and Polly's pinafore, he shook his head and touched Odysseus's tunic. "This is Polly. We're lost. We're not Greek."

"_Eiste ksenoi_," said Odysseus, appearing to understand. He pointed at them, then made the gesture of rocking a small child to sleep. "_P__aidi_."

"Is he calling us children?" Digory said indignantly.

"Well," said Polly gently, "we rather are, you know."

Odysseus continued to rock the invisible child, but pointed at himself. "_Mhtera? Oi goneis? Patera_?"

Polly gasped. "_Patera_! I think—I think he's asking where our parents are, Digory. Patera, father! My dad always calls himself the _paterfamilias_, and he says it means he's the father of the family."

"Brilliant, Polly!" Digory enthused, then immediately regretted it as his wound throbbed.

Polly turned to Odysseus. "Our…our _patera_…" She pointed at herself and Digory. "They're…not here. Not here." She shook her head vigorously, then looked around and appeared very confused.

Odysseus's bushy eyebrows went up, and he exclaimed, "_Eiste xathei! Ftwxa paidia_!" He touched both of them with the greatest of sympathy, then frowned a moment and pointed to himself and his men. "Ithaca."

"Ithaca," Digory repeated. "I think that was—is—his kingdom."

"I think you're right," Polly said.

"But how do we get home?" Digory asked Odysseus, tracing the shape of a building on the wooden slats. "I want…I want my _mhtera_."

"So do I," Polly said mournfully.

Odysseus watched their faces carefully, and appeared to understand. " _Na ekneyrizomai_," he said gently. "_Tha spitia sas_."

With that, he stood up and motioned for one of the men to bring the children some food. "Do you think that he'll help us?" Digory asked around a mouthful of rather dry bread.

"I think so," said Polly thoughtfully. "I think so."


	5. Part Five

The children slept fitfully. Scarcely had they closed their eyes, it seemed, than they were being woken up by the creak of oars and the shouts of the sailors; the sun was barely cresting the eastern horizon, but already the entire fleet had opened their sails and set to rowing.

"Why the haste?" Polly asked.

"Because they're sailors," Digory answered with the utmost patience. "I imagine they don't want to waste their time floating about."

"I _know_ that," she retorted crossly. "But everyone's running about and setting to and working rather quickly, don't you think?"

At that moment, Odysseus noticed that they were awake. "_Koitakste, paidia_!" he cried, pointing. "_K__semparkarw_!"

Digory and Polly shaded their eyes and looked out to starboard where the Greek was pointing. There, looming mistily in the distance, was a great mass of land. "Oh, thank heavens!" Digory sighed.

The wind was to the fleet's advantage, and it seemed like only a few moments before the sails were reefed and sand crunched under the hull of Odysseus's ship. As Odysseus leapt from the prow onto the beach and stood, fists on his hips, surveying the craggy cliffs and hills that towered above them, there was an eerie silence.

Digory held his breath for no apparent reason, and Polly took his hand.

"_Xairetismoys, taksidiwtes_," came a loud voice. It seemed to sweep down from the mysterious hills and rustle the sails and Digory's hair, tickling his ears.

Around the children, the sailors clamored excitedly, some looking at the sky and others reaching for their weapons.

"_Xairetismoys_," said Odysseus, suddenly striding forward and out of Polly and Digory's line of sight. "_Eimai Odysseus toy Ithaca. Emeis anapayla xanontai…mporw na thesei_?"

"_Tha bohthhsoyme_," came the other voice. "_En andrwn na moy. Eimai Aeolus, ploiarxos anemoi_."

A silent moment passed, and then Odysseus cried, "_Proerxontai! Apobibazontai—edw. Akakios, Aeolus_."

"What's going on?" Polly whispered, her eyes wide. "Oh, I _do_ wish I spoke ancient Greek…!"

Digory was about to reply when a burly sailor strode towards them and picked up first Polly, who shrieked, then tucked her under one arm and did the same with Digory. As if they weighed no more than feathers, the sailor strode across the ship and leapt onto the shore.

"That was quite unnecessary, thank you," said Digory crossly the moment he was set down, fixing his shirt.

Polly elbowed him. Standing next to Odysseus was a small but very thin man dressed in a white tunic; he was watching them beadily and tapping his chin with one long finger. "_I den oti eseis ftasei, eiste_," he said to them.

Digory and Polly looked at each other and shrugged.

The man frowned. "_Sen Türkler misin_?"

Polly stomped her foot. "I do wish someone would give us breakfast, instead of asking us all sorts of questions we can't understand anyway."

"Aha!" cried the man, laughing. "You speak English!"

Digory blinked. "Why…y-yes, as a matter of fact. But…"

"Oh, dear," sighed Polly.

The man bowed again. "Forgive me. I am called Aeolus, Master of the Winds, and this is my island, Aeolia." He gestured to the lands behind him. "Come. While Odysseus is gathering his men, we will walk together to my house."

It was Digory's turn to grab Polly's hand, and they walked after Aeolus, knees knocking and palms sweating.

"I hope you will pardon our rocky introductions," Aeolus said over his shoulder, the pebbles of the beach crunching under his sandals. "I receive few visitors here."

"I can't imagine why," said Polly faintly.

Evidently Aeolus took this as a compliment, for he smiled graciously. "Thank you, young maiden. Now, Odysseus tells me you are not Greek."

"I'm not sure what's what anymore, quite frankly," said Digory. "In fact, I demand to know just what in blazes is going on here! All we're doing is trying to get to Narnia, and we keep getting knocked around from world to world. And how on Earth can you speak English?"

Aeolus smiled with infinite forbearance. "Dear boy. Don't you know that you don't get everything you ask for?"

"If you ask me," Polly broke in, "we're asking some very sensible questions."

"Patience, patience," Aeolus said, gesturing them through a low doorway set into a whitewashed wall. "'Tis quite fortunate you came here, for I am the Master of the Winds."

"Well, what's that?" Polly asked. Their footsteps echoed on mosaic floors.

Holding up a finger, Aeolus seemed to listen for a moment, then went off to the right, where a little spiral staircase led up to a large window through which streamed golden sunshine.

"Loony," Digory said under his breath.

Polly shushed him, and together they watched Aeolus lean out the window, take a deep breath, and blow, his cheeks puffed out to a ridiculous size. Suddenly, in the midst of their muffled laughter, a great wind ripped through the hall, flattening Digory's shirt against his back and making Polly's pinafore flutter and snap like a sail.

"That is what I do," said Aeolus, coming back down the staircase with a slight cough. "My warehouses are filled with wind—West, South, East, North, zephyrs, breezes, gales, and hurricanes.

"What I propose, then," he continued, ambling around the gallery and spinning the weathervanes and various other meteorological paraphernalia that decorated the room, "is to simply place you upon the North Wind and have it blow you to your terminus."

Digory and Polly were silent for a moment. "Isn't that a bit…" Polly said hesitantly, "dangerous?"

"No more dangerous than fairy dust," Aeolus replied, looking at his nails. "Or consulting with sorcerers, for that matter."

"Well, what do you consider yourself to be, then?" Digory demanded, bristling at the idea that this strange fellow seemed to know all about them.

Aeolus arched an eyebrow. "I am a demigod. We are of a rather…different breed than sorcerers. That's how I came to speak your language."

"Could we have a moment to decide?" Polly asked, and the demigod bowed.

"I'm against it," Digory said as soon as they had gone a few paces away. "I'm tired of being kicked around. Polly, think about it—do you know for certain where we'll end up next? It—it could be Timbuktu!"

"But isn't there a chance we _could_ get to Narnia?" Polly asked gently. "Or even back to London? I rather miss my mum, you know."

"A very small chance," Digory grunted.

Polly's face fell, and she played with her now raggedy bow. "I don't want to go without you."

"Perhaps it'll be good for the both of us."

"Oh, don't say that. You know just as well as I do that if it weren't for me, you'd be very lonely indeed."

Digory crossed his arms and looked around at the high-ceilinged hall with all its interesting trappings and corridors. "I think I like it just fine here."

"Suit yourself." Polly shrugged and turned to walk back to Aeolus.

Suddenly, the enormity of what he had been just about to do dawned on Digory—the rest of his life on an ancient Greek island?—and he grabbed Polly's hand. "I was just poking fun," he muttered.

She smiled.

"Have you made your decision?" Aeolus asked.

"Yes," said Polly. "We'll ride your North Wind."

Aeolus smiled and bowed. "Very good. If you please, ascend that staircase and I'll be right along."

So saying, he went off down a corridor, the echo of his sandals dying away as Digory and Polly went slowly up the stairs. "It is very beautiful," said Polly when they reached the top, looking out of Aeolus's wind-blowing window at the sky, a clear blue despite the mist that had seemed to surround the island. "It's as if…well, it's as if the world has just begun."

Digory sighed. "It'll be rather boring, don't you think, if we get back to Our World after this?"

Polly shrugged, leaning on the sill. "Perhaps not. I think that we'll find plenty of adventure there, too, if we just look.

Aeolus called to them from below. "Children!"

They looked. He was carrying under one arm a rich purple sack, so full of whatever it was inside that the seams were straining, though he didn't seem to be tired of the weight at all.

"What should we do?" Polly asked.

"Just turn your backs to me," Aeolus instructed, "and close your eyes!"

Digory didn't like that idea much, but Polly took his hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze, and he managed to convince himself to close his eyes.

A moment's silence ensued, but the peace was soon broken by a whistle, a groan, and the sound of a thousand sighs all issued at once. The wind was warm and tingly, and it lifted Digory and Polly right off their feet and cradled them like babies.

"Oh!" said Polly as the island moved away from under them.

That about summed up Digory's feelings, as well. Though the action made his eyes water, he looked back once more at the island and saw Aeolus waving from his window and Odysseus's fleet in the bay.

"Wherever we're going," Polly shouted to him, "I don't think I'd mind if it took a while."

And so they settled down, borne on the back of the North Wind, sailing high above the birds, but feeling as though they were curled up in the softest of feather beds.

* * *

_A/N: Hey, all, Sushi here! Some of you have mentioned that the structure of this ficlet seems a little off—I just thought I'd note that "Between the Worlds" was written as one piece, meant to be read in one sitting. I broke it into chapters to make it easier to read on FanFiction. (Let's face it—none of you would have sat through a 20,000-word chapter. _I_ wouldn't have!) So that's why it seems a bit choppy._


	6. Part Six

The North Wind carried them so far and so fast that it seemed as though no time at all had passed when the children found themselves slowly drifting downwards. At first, Digory had the sickening sensation of being pushed off the high dive at the public swimming pool, but then he noticed a small island—much smaller than Never-Land and Aeolia, at any rate—and suddenly felt like laughing.

Gently, as if placing a baby bird back in its nest, the North Wind set Digory and Polly down on the beach of that tiny island, then swirled around them one last time and was gone. Digory was so caught up in the exhilaration of the moment, his stomach and feet still feeling as though he were flying, that he didn't notice Polly's quiet sobs until a few minutes later.

"Oh, Polly," he said, feeling suddenly awkward, "what's wrong?"

She was hugging her knees, her dingy pinafore half-buried by the white sand she was sitting on. "What's wrong? We're not anywhere, _that's_ what's wrong! This isn't Narnia, and it—it's _certainly_ not England."

With a loud, unladylike sniff, she wiped her nose.

Digory sat in the sand next to her. "Don't cry, Poll. Really. We could be like…like Robinson Crusoe and Friday!"

This only made her cry harder, and Digory could do nothing but sit with his hands in his lap until she decided she was finished and dried her face.

"We'll make do, I suppose," she said with a sigh.

"Children."

Digory and Polly turned around. There, standing on the sand not ten paces away from them, was a great tawny lion—one that Digory was simultaneously terrified of and drawn to.

"Aslan?" Polly ventured.

The lion bowed his noble head. "Polly, Digory."

"Does this mean we're in Narnia?" Digory asked excitedly. All the memories of that glorious morning—the song—Fledge—Jadis—once dulled by other concerns, now flooded his mind again.

Aslan stretched out his paws and settled down in the sand, twitching his tail to the rhythm of the pounding waves. "I'm afraid not, Digory."

Polly gave a devastated "_Oh_!" but Digory, encouraged by the lion's gentle demeanor, stepped forward a few paces and knelt down just out of reach of the giant paws.

"Aslan, sir, we have tried so hard to get to your country…to you. We've tried nearly everything!"

"Are we doing something wrong?" Polly asked tentatively.

Aslan chuckled a deep lion-laugh, and it rumbled in Digory's chest. "Are you doing something wrong?" he repeated. "Oh, children. What you are doing is not wrong."

Polly and Digory grinned, but Aslan wasn't finished.

"It's how you're setting about doing it in the first place that's wrong."

"Oh, but—" Polly started.

"I am well pleased that you seek me and my country," Aslan went on. "After all, none who experience Narnia can ever fully leave it—they will always come back, some sooner than others."

"Does this mean we can—" began Digory, but Polly had caught on and so elbowed him into silence.

Aslan lowered his head to their levels, his golden eyes piercing theirs. "But you cannot find Narnia—Narnia finds _you_. Try as hard as you might, Digory," he added as Digory's jaw jutted forward, "but doors to it open only when you're not looking for them."

"So…how did we come to see all these different worlds?" Polly asked.

"Because you sought the help of mortals," Aslan replied. "Yes, even Aeolus will someday meet an end, just as you will. You see, Digory, Polly, this is what happens when you try to get to Narnia through any other means than the ones ordained for it by the Ancient Magic. Of all the worlds you saw, none could compare to Narnia, can they?"

Polly and Digory sat in silence, shaking their heads as the import of Aslan's words washed over them. "Will we never get back into Narnia, then?" Polly asked, sounding absolutely miserable. "I don't…I don't know if I could bear to never see you again."

Aslan leaned forward and gave her a gentle lion's kiss with his rough tongue. "I did not say that, dear one. Just because Narnia is not in Your World does not mean _I_ am not."

Once again, Digory opened his mouth to speak, but something in Aslan's face made him shut it again and remain in silence. Together, the three of them sat in the warm sand and watched the gulls soar high above them, swooping down to catch fish and splash in the ocean with their wings.

At last, Polly broke the silence. "You know, I'm dreadfully hungry."

Aslan laughed another lion's laugh, and Digory couldn't help but laugh along. "I believe it is nearly evening in Your World," he said, standing up on his four paws. "You'll be just in time for supper."

As if they shared one mind, the two children threw their arms around Aslan's neck and buried their faces in his mane as he licked their cheeks and purred deep in his chest. "Thank you so much, Aslan," said Polly. "I won't lie and say I'm not disappointed, but it _is_ good to know that you haven't forgotten us!"

"Forgotten you?" Aslan asked. "Never."

And he breathed warm lion's breath on them. Digory instinctively closed his eyes and breathed deeply; it smelled of every good thing under the sun, and he tried desperately to burn the memory of it into his mind.

When he opened his eyes, though, the warm sun and sand had gone, and instead of Aslan and the gulls, he found himself and Polly back in Uncle Andrew's study. The old man was pacing back and forth on the other side of the room, wringing his hands dreadfully and muttering to himself.

The disappointment in seeing Uncle Andrew rather than Aslan was acute, but Polly squeezed his hand and said, "Mr. Ketterley?"

Uncle Andrew gave a great start. "Oh—good heavens—jiminy cricket—thank heaven you're both still alive!"

He rushed towards them with hands outstretched. "Oh, oh…"

"What happened, Uncle Andrew?" Digory asked firmly.

"What? Oh, yes, yes, that unfortunate incident—well, I've sent Mrs. Lefay packing, I'll have you know—she's gone, and gone for good. Wretched old hag."

At that moment, a voice from downstairs called out, "Digory! Uncle Andrew! Supper!"

Uncle Andrew started again. "Oh, good heavens—look, you two, whatever you do, _don't tell your mothers where you've gone_!"

"We won't," Polly and Digory promised, and they went downstairs.

"Look," Digory said as Polly put her hand on the front door. "I'm…well, I'm sorry about whatever I've said about you not being a brick. Because…because you _are_ rather a brick, Polly."

Polly beamed. "I think rather highly of you, too, Digory. See you?"

"Yes—see you."

She waved once and snuck out the door, and Digory went right into the dining room where Mother and Aunt Letty were just sitting down at the table.

"Hello, Mother," he said. "Did you have a good day?"

"Good gracious!" she exclaimed with a laugh the moment she clapped eyes on him. "Digory Kirke, you're an absolute disgrace! Just look at your jumper. Honestly, son, you and your games…I'll never understand them."

"Well, you wouldn't believe them if I told you, anyway," Digory said, and hopped into his chair with a smile.

Aunt Letty winked.

_The End_


End file.
